


Here Comes Your Man

by luninosity



Category: British Actor RPF, X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: Comic-Con, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 04:33:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael never has believed in love at first sight. And he’s seen James before. So many times.</p><p>But <i>this</i> time feels somehow new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Here Comes Your Man

**Author's Note:**

> Someone had to write the Comic-Con fic! AU in that no one’s married; title from the Pixies’ song of that name.

Michael’s never believed in love at first sight. It’s a ridiculous concept: how can you simply see someone, and, from the line of his neck, the curl of her hair, the sparkle in a pair of eyes, simply fall head over heels? Shouldn’t you have to at least get past the hellos and first-names?  
  
Except, on this cloudless Southern California day, under the summer sunshine, he watches James hop out of the studio-provided car, rumpled and yawning and clinging to his coffee cup like it’s the savior of the world, and his heart flips over in his chest.  
  
And he thinks, oh.  
  
There’s sunshine splashing James’s hair and pouring over his face. It settles into the curve of his ever-present smile as if it’s found a home.  
  
And Michael never _has_ believed in love at first sight. And he’s seen James before. So many times.  
  
But _this_ time feels new.  Like he’s just turned around and the world’s turned with him, different now, brighter and obvious and clear.

Like a first.  
  
But love doesn’t work that way.   
  
Does it?  
  
He’d pointedly _not_ fallen in love with James McAvoy on first seeing him, not years ago in a bloodied period wartime uniform, not walking into a superhero audition room, not throwing arms around him at the _First Class_ press-tour reunion and feeling that solid Scottish warmth pressed up along his body. He believes in love, certainly, but not that kind of instant knee-weakening bolt-from-the-blue epiphany-style revelation. He can’t meet ocean-current eyes and a glorious lochs-and-poetry accent and pocket-sized muscles and just _know_.  
  
He looks at James again, while James yawns and scrunches up his nose and makes a sleepy-kitten face at the sun. This adorableness fails to resolve any of the sudden confusion in his head or heart.  
  
 _Can_ he just…know? Now? After all this time?  
  
He and James have spent years as friends. Laughing, teasing, playing practical jokes, getting each other drunk off increasingly elaborate martinis; crashing golf carts, hiding directorial megaphones, trading recipes, his beef Wellington for James’s lemon tarts.   
  
The tarts never come out quite the same, when he makes them on his own.  
  
He’d told James this once, on a late-glooming London night, after a few pints. James had laughed, equally tipsy, and demanded that they stop at a store, and then had come home with him and made tarts in Michael’s oven while Michael memorized every movement of freckled hands, eloquent under a dusting of stray powdered sugar.   
  
James had passed out on his sofa while waiting for the pastries to cool. There’d been a smudge of powdered sugar on one cheek, and a loop of hair standing up at the back of his head.  
  
Michael, standing there at the foot of the couch, felt something in his chest ache, he wasn’t sure what, but he was awfully drunk too and so he’d just barely managed to put a blanket over James and fall down on his bed and decide to worry about it in the morning.  
  
In the morning—which had been in fact afternoon—James had been perfectly wide awake, blanket neatly folded, doing dishes as noiselessly as possible, when Michael himself had staggered out of the bedroom bleary-eyed and hangover-fuzzy and dimly aware that he was being a terrible host and that if he felt this bad then James must be ten times worse.  
  
James had smiled at him, and tucked him back into bed, and had to leave—lunch with his agent, he’d said. Michael’d woken up a few hours later and eaten half the lemon tarts out of devouring hunger and then felt like crying, because they were perfect, because even thoroughly smashed James can bake anything and it’ll be perfect, because James had made them for him.   
  
Because James hadn’t eaten one himself, before leaving.  
  
James makes him think of lemon-sugar and laughter and sunshine and bad superhero jokes and Star Trek references that he doesn’t get and he’s in love with James.  
  
Just like that.   
  
Or maybe not just like that. Maybe it’s the kind of epiphany that sneaks up slowly, disguised as contentment, the way he’s felt at James’s side all along.  
  
He stares some more, not as surreptitiously as he means it to be, under the happy sunlight. James spots him looking. Tilts his head, not lessening the kitten resemblance, curious. “Everything all right, then?”  
  
“What? Yes. Fine. Why?”  
  
“You’re staring at me. Is it the hair? Did I forget to brush the hair again? That happens more often than you’d think.”  
  
“No…really?…no, I was just. Sort of. Never mind.”  
  
“Hmm. D’you want my coffee? You can have some. We can share.”  
  
“I…” Giving up. Giving in. It’s all he can do. “What flavor is it today?”  
  
“It’s in fact not.” James regards his cup mournfully, handing it over. “They were out of creamer. At the hotel. So I just poured in kind of too much sugar. It’s not the same.”  
  
Michael opens his mouth to ask, then stops. No, James wouldn’t make the request. James would, when confronted with an absence of flavor, simply smile and say nothing and try to make do, rather than put anyone to any trouble or make hotel staff feel anxious in any way.  
  
There definitely is too much sugar. He manages to swallow regardless, drowning the sudden awareness of admiration and exasperation and affection and adoration in scalding liquid.  
  
“Sorry,” James says, for no easily explicable reason.  
  
“What? Why? You did warn me. _How_ are you drinking that, without acquiring diabetes on the spot?”  
  
“I’m trying not to think about it.” James tips his face up toward the sun. Practically purrs. So does the sun, in reply. “I love being warm.”  
  
I love you, Michael almost says. No. No. He needs to get some sort of grip. On himself. Not on James. Oh, bad idea. Very bad.   
  
“You…you’re going to get sunburned. You know you get sunburned. Easily.”  
  
“I know. Don’t spoil my fun. I’m hardly ever properly warm. I think I’m done with that; you can just toss it in a trash bin. You’re right about the sugar, anyway.”  
  
“James—”  
  
“Want to go exploring with me?” Those eyes dance at him, all eager expectance; Michael, completely unable not to assent, nods. “James?”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“You…they’ll have the air conditioning on. High. Probably. Inside. Tell me if you get cold.”  
  
“Why, so you can get them to turn it down? I’ll be fine. Tons of people, anyway, we’ll need it. Can we go find the Game of Thrones display? We’ve got fifteen minutes. I could use those fifteen minutes to sit on the Iron Throne.”  
  
“You don’t have time,” says one of the omnipresent volunteer assistants. “We need to get you upstairs.”  
  
Those wide blue eyes turn to gaze at her, and Michael doesn’t understand how the girl doesn’t melt into a puddle on the spot, but evidently she’s made of stronger steel that he himself is, faced with an enthusiastic and geeky and thoroughly adorable James.  
  
“You really don’t have time, I’m sorry—”  
  
“Do we have time for me to get coffee?” That’s his voice. Interrupting. “There’s a cart, sort of, right there. I’ll just be a minute. And James only needs a minute, right?”  
  
James is now looking at him with the sort of expression generally reserved for deities or Santa Claus or saints, all rolled into one. “Right, absolutely, I can—”  
  
The girl looks from one of them to the other. Sighs. “Fine. Five minutes. Be back on this spot.”  
  
“Thank you,” James says to her, and then, to Michael, “thank you, I’m so glad you needed coffee, seriously, I—”  
  
“Don’t waste your five minutes.”  
  
“Oh, right—!” James hesitates for a second longer, looking as if he wants to say something more; finally just shakes his head and dashes away for, presumably, the Iron Throne.  
  
The girl looks up at Michael, from many inches down. Raises an eyebrow. “You don’t really want coffee, do you.”  
  
“For me? Not so much. Don’t tell him.”  
  
“Never.”  
  
“Thank you. I do have to go buy some now, though.”  
  
“Of course you do. Go on. You can even have six minutes. For him.”  
  
He has the impression she’s smirking at his back the entire time, as he makes his way over to the coffee vendor. Oh, well. Not as if he’s ashamed of being in love with James. Who wouldn’t be?  
  
He does wonder, momentarily, why it’s so obvious to her that the coffee was an excuse. To her, and not to James.  
  
James has always been passionately dedicated to their characters, wonderfully fun to work with, amazingly generous in every possible way, with him. They’re friends. Perhaps it’s never even occurred to those earnest sapphire eyes that there might be anything more.  
  
To be fair, it’s only just now occurred to _him_. But then he’s also very sure that he’s been in love with James all along. He simply never noticed. Because that feeling was constantly there.  
  
He wonders what he can do to make James see that. Wonders whether he _should_ ; they’re friends. And if he says anything, if he pushes too far, he might lose those blue eyes and that friendship forever. Out of his life.  
  
That thought physically hurts. Knives to the chest. No. Burning coffee, instead. Searing as it’s poured along all the crevices of his heart.  
  
“Hey,” says the vendor, “were you planning to order something?” and Michael belatedly notices that he’s been standing at the front of the line and staring at the price list for ages and utterly failing to read anything on it.  
  
“I…yes, sorry. Coffee? Sorry.”  
  
“That is what we’re selling. Any particular type of coffee?”  
  
“Um. Can you put caramel in it? And those, you know, crunchy…sprinkles, sort of…the toffee ones…on it? And whipped cream?”  
  
“Sweet tooth?”  
  
“It’s not for me…”  
  
The man grins knowingly at him. “Someone special?”  
  
“Yes,” Michael says, wholeheartedly. Yes. True.  
  
“Just a sec, then.”  
  
“How much do I—”  
  
“Oh, nothing. But sign this, would you?”  
  
“Are you—”  
  
“Totally. Magneto, man. Buying my coffee. You know how much business I’m going to get because of you? Plus my granddaughter’ll think I’m cool.”  
  
Michael laughs, startled; signs not one but two napkins, one for said granddaughter; lurks near the corner of the coffee cart, hopefully inconspicuously. One or two fans find him there and request photos; they’re nice and sane, and they look overjoyed to spot him, so he says yes, and tries not to look too jittery with nerves, checking the time between snapshots and wondering what James has been up to.  
  
“Here.” A hand salutes him, with a fluffy froth-filled cup; “Thank you,” Michael tells him fervently, and makes it two steps away before all but running over James, who’s evidently come to find him, instead.  
  
Tropical-wave eyes consider the pile of whipped cream, entertained. “You suddenly had sugar cravings?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then—”  
  
“This is for you.”  
  
And James looks completely astonished, more so than might be warranted by a coffee-gift in general. “I—for—why?”  
  
“You were missing your coffee this morning.” Hasn’t anyone ever bought coffee for James before? Noticed when he’s quietly accepted his own sacrifices? “You do like caramel, right?”  
  
“Very much yes…but, Michael…you didn’t have to—”  
  
Distractions. Necessary ones. “What on earth’re you wearing?”  
  
“Oh, the shirt!” James grins, successfully diverted. Takes a sip of coffee, obviously unthinking, forgetting to argue against the kindness. “There was a very lovely man selling them, and I couldn’t resist, because look, it’s got Nightcrawler on it, and—”  
  
“You bought a shirt from a random man on the convention floor?” James went out onto the floor. Not with a mask or a disguise. Among all the people. Without Michael there to—to—  
  
Well. To be there. Just in case. James, despite all the sturdy muscles, is decidedly pocket-sized. Might get trampled in a crowd. He refuses to think about any worse possibilities.  
  
“He didn’t actually want me to give him any money, but I sort of insisted. I mean, the man makes a living selling these, I’m not going to deprive him of an income. And this Charles looks exactly like Patrick Stewart, don’t you think—”  
  
“James, where’s _your_ shirt?”  
  
“Oh…!” The blue eyes look momentarily startled and then distressed and then cheerfully dismissive. “I must’ve left it there. I—”  
  
“We have your shirt,” provides one of the bodyguards. “Here.”  
  
“Oh, thank you—”  
  
“You _changed in public?”_  
  
“In the back of the booth!”  
  
“James—!” He’s practically hyperventilating. “You—you can’t just—did you at least have—”  
  
“The defensive mountains over there surrounding me? Yes, I did.” James grins at him. Drinks more coffee. There’s whipped cream on his lip. Michael tries desperately not to whimper. “They would’ve kept me safe. Since you weren’t there, and all. But no one even tried to take pictures, to be honest. Bit sad.”  
  
Too many parts of that statement require processing. He stands there for too long, just gazing at that whipped cream, sinfully white and sweet and inviting.   
  
James changed shirts, and he wasn’t there. James is joking about feeling safer when Michael’s there. James sounds genuinely just a tiny bit hurt that no one tried the photos, and no one _should’ve_ tried, because Michael would have to track them down bare-handed if that were the case, but James should never have to feel unwanted or less than attractive, and—  
  
“Right,” James says, every last bit of wistfulness gone, banished out of sight of all the gleeful nerd-heaven joy, “a girl in a Joss Whedon shirt also gave me a copy of _Macbeth_ translated into Klingon, isn’t that _amazing_ , I could read you some of—oh, no, never mind, Star Wars person, sorry—there was a booth with lightsabers over there, if you’d like—”  
  
“You—you—I don’t need a lightsaber—”  
  
“Are you sure? I was offering to pay. I could buy you one. If you wanted—”  
  
“James,” Michael says, helplessly, “I love y—how much you love it here.” Oh god. Too close. “You don’t have to—if I want one I’ll buy it. Please don’t.”  
  
“You bought me coffee,” James says, to the coffee, as if it doesn’t already know.  
  
“That’s not—I bought you coffee because I wanted to. You don’t need to do anything for me.”  
  
“But—”  
  
“No. Wait. You do—sort of—there is something you can do for me. Please don’t go anywhere without me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Since…I…obviously can’t trust you to not take off your shirt in front of fans. Please.”  
  
“They’re very nice people when you talk to them. Yes, all right, I _know_ , you can stop looking at me as if you’re about to drag me off into protective custody for my own good. Agreed.”  
  
“Thank you.”  
  
“Guys?” Their personal assistant again, sweet-faced and perky and full of inflexible persistence. “Entertainment Weekly interview. Very very soon. We really ought to go.”  
  
Michael nods, and puts a hand on James’s shoulder without thinking as they start to walk, keeping them in contact, keeping him close.  
  
James tips that head to look up at him, eyebrows swooping up in startled speculation; but he grins again, as Michael panics and forgets to move the hand and consequently panics even more. Brings his own hand up, briefly, and squeezes Michael’s, fingers warm.  
  
That warmth lingers all day long. Spreads inward, through his chest, into his lungs, when he breathes and catches a hint of apple shampoo in the air, caramel sweetness on James’s breath. Sneaks little golden tendrils into his heart and blooms there, when James leans in toward him during panels, puts a hand not on his shoulder during photo opportunities but around his waist, and holds on a bit too tightly to be casual.  
  
When he walks into a panel wearing a ridiculous wolf mask because someone’s handed it to him on the escalator as a horror-movie promotion, and he knows it’ll make James laugh, and it does, and while cracking up James gives him a high-five and links their fingers in the middle of it for a split second.  
  
When he’s the last one through the door for that previously announced Entertainment Weekly interview, and ends up perched on the back of the sofa while Sir Patrick Stewart tugs James down beside him, and hates himself a little for not being two steps closer. He leans over awkwardly because he can’t not, it’s phototropism and James is his sun, and James without looking stretches an arm casually along the back of the couch and their fingers meet.  
  
When James spots Norman Reedus from across the hall, and waves energetically enough that Norman recognizes him—Michael ends up waving too, just in case James is too short to be seen over the crowds, and maybe that’s what finally works—and then the two of them end up invited back to the Walking Dead booth, James and Norman chattering away a mile a minute about the best zombie-killing methods and the graphic novels while Michael trails behind, feeling bereft.  
  
He’s a fan of the show, of course. Loves the storytelling. Would’ve said up until thirty seconds ago that Daryl’s his favorite character.  
  
He watches James nibble a proffered Cheez-It out of Norman’s fingers and then pose for a snapshot. He kind of hopes Daryl gets eaten by a zombie in the season opener.  
  
James beams at him and insists that Michael be in a picture as well, and takes it himself, grinning like the sun’s come out indoors. Michael doesn’t have the heart to say no.  
  
All day long, James is brilliant. Charming and loveable and plainly thrilled to be there, in every single panel and interview and exhibition hall; making jokes about his hair, his incredible attractiveness in seventies clothing, his admiration for Sir Patrick. Michael ends up being quieter than usual throughout all the sessions, because he’s continually entranced by those so-blue eyes, those expressive hands, all the freckles in exuberant motion, revealed by short sleeves.  
  
James, in his element. Beautiful. The crowds adore him. And Michael loves him.  
  
James notices the uncharacteristic quietness, because of course James would. Leans over and whispers in his ear, “I know you were plotting ways to disguise yourself as a zombie extra and bite Norman, you know,” and Michael, surprised, laughs so hard he has to put a hand between himself and the microphone. James smiles, watching him, private and intimate and breathless and smug.   
  
Michael wants to kiss him. Settles for whispering back, “I’d rather bite you,” because James will either take it as flirting or as a joke, and either way he’s safe, and because he’s thinking he’s safe he’s completely not prepared for James to murmur in turn, breath warm along his ear, “That works for me.”  
  
And that feeling, the sudden clear _oh!_ from that morning, the sensation of having looked over and seen the man beside him for the first time all over again, the knowledge that this is how he wants to spend every day, with James beside him…  
  
That feeling explodes into glorious reality all over again. And never goes away. He suspects it never will.  
  
Michael catches himself standing a bit too close, hovering a bit too protectively, hand on James’s back when the whole cast stands to wave. But, though the jewel-blue eyes dance with amusement every time—I know exactly what you’re doing, say the glints—James seems not to mind. Only looks up at him and smiles and tucks himself under Michael’s arm as if he’s always wanted to be right there.   
  
Sometime later in the night, they all end up at the studio-sponsored party, giddy with the energy of exhaustion. The music’s dreadful, but everyone’s past the point of minding; seventies soundtracks shriek out of the DJ corner, because evidently that’s what happens when the upcoming film takes place in that decade and some studio heads have a few drinks during the party-planning process; there’s a dance floor and a disco ball, which makes James laugh delightedly, merriment that’s genuine and unselfconscious and turns heads from across the room, because James laughing will do that, every time, to the world.  
  
Michael smiles back. Offers to get them drinks; realizes a few moments later that the bartender, though good, is simply too young and overwhelmed, and ducks behind the bar to mix his own martini, and one for James, and then one for Hugh Jackman, because Hugh appears so elated to find out first that there’s an experienced bartender in the room and second that it’s Michael.  
  
It’s the nice thing to do. James would do it.   
  
He spares a peek around the room. Is James watching?  
  
Hugh, whom Michael otherwise admires and considers a friend, decides to proclaim to the room and to Twitter and to apparently the entire fucking universe that Michael’s available for drink orders. He rhapsodizes over his own martini, to thunderous applause.  
  
“Sorry,” Michael tries to say, “one more—no, _really_ only one more—” but he is enjoying the attention, at least for a little while, and also it’s hard to say no to studio heads and film stars with whom he’d love to work and people he’s been idolizing for years.  
  
He scans the room again. Searching for incomparable eyes and freckles and shortness. Ah. James is sitting over with Patrick Stewart, nodding intently at whatever Sir Patrick’s telling him. Blushing. Running a hand through his hair, that I-need-a-second-before-answering diversionary maneuver.  
  
Blushing?  
  
Ian McKellen sidles up. “Hello, Michael.”  
  
“Hello to you. Can I get you anything?”  
  
“Oh, what a tempting invitation…but I’d settle for a drink for now. Besides, James might telepathically try to strangle me.”  
  
Michael laughs. Then stops laughing. Has James said something? He’d thought that the blue eyes’d reacted just a little too seriously to Ian’s earlier joking proposition; had been taking that as something like hope, that James might be jealous, might not want him flirting with anyone else, might want him.  
  
“Forgive me for asking,” Ian observes, “but why aren’t you taking advantage of the way he was looking at you during the panel, right now?”  
  
“I—he was looking at me?”  
  
“Oh, my poor oblivious boy. Is that going to be rainbow-colored? How marvelous. What does it taste of?”  
  
“Fruit and alcohol. Say that again? I mean—please. Sorry.”  
  
“My favorite things. Michael, he holds on to you. Everyone else he hugs or pats on the shoulder. You he touches everywhere. You hadn’t noticed?”  
  
“I’m in love with him,” Michael says, and then nearly drops the shaker and narrowly avoids causing irredeemable catastrophe behind the bar.  
  
“Of course you are. I admit I was hoping he’d do something after I proposed to you, so that I could watch the show.”  
  
“Sir Ian McKellen,” Michael says, after a minute of sheer horror at the ingenuity of it, “are you seriously attempting to manipulate my love life?”  
  
“Obviously. And it’s such fun. Oh, dear, look at that…”  
  
 _That_ is Sir Patrick patting James on both knees again. James flushes and laughs and ducks his head and doesn’t move away. Michael’s teeth’re grinding themselves together.  
  
“Delicious,” Ian pronounces, and Michael’s not sure whether he means the drink or the reaction. “I may’ve told Patrick to flirt with him a bit. Just for you. But it’s funny, I don’t recall asking him for quite so much touching; but, then, my other half is so very good at improvising…”  
  
The crowd swirls through his line of sight and refuses to ebb. He can’t see James anymore.  
  
“Improvising,” he echoes, and then, “I have to go.”  
  
Ian smiles. Sips his colorful drink, serene. “I thought you might.”  
  
Michael ducks out from behind the bar, disregarding the disappointed chorus. Bolts for the spot where he’s last seen James, insofar as bolting’s possible in the costumed throng.  
  
Patrick’s alone on the lounge seat when he arrives. Raises eyebrows at him. “Can I—”  
  
“ _James_.”  
  
“He went that way.” Patrick waves a hand. “Said he needed some air. I think he meant the balcony. Good luck.”  
  
Michael stares at him, shakes his head, and runs that direction, tripping over Nicholas and Jennifer in the process. He’ll have to apologize later, but for now he needs to find James.  
  
Who proves to be alone on the balcony, arms propped on the black metal railing, gazing at the city lights, or the vast expanse of ocean and night beyond that. Michael can’t tell.  
  
The starlight bathes his hair. Slides silver along all the freckles. James doesn’t turn around, but does drop his face into his hands, wearily, for just a second.  
  
“James,” Michael says, suddenly scared.  
  
James spins around, wide-eyed. Collides with the railing; wobbles, grabs the iron for support. “Michael—I was just—sorry—did you need something?”  
  
“Yes. I thought—hang on, shouldn’t you have a coat, or a jumper, or your other shirt? More layers? I thought I asked you to tell me if you were cold.”  
  
“I’m not.” Still a little off-balance, wary, in the silver-grey shadows. “It’s a nice night. Terrific day. Terrific party.”  
  
“Is it?” He closes the distance between them, carefully. “You don’t seem to be having fun.”  
  
“Oh…” James laughs, not exactly amused. Looks out at the sky again. “No, I was, you were, I could see that, so I just…Patrick’s lovely, really, he was being so complimentary and I just couldn’t…how’s Ian?”  
  
“Busy practicing his evil mastermind wiles elsewhere, I think.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Never mind. Are you all right?”  
  
“I’m marvelous.” James turns that coruscating smile on him. It doesn’t quite reach the eyes. “It’s been a fantastic day, hasn’t it?”  
  
“I thought it was. Please tell me.”  
  
“I really—”  
  
“ _Please_ , James.”  
  
“Pepper Potts, then.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“First Iron Man movie. The ending bit. You offered to get us drinks—”  
  
“—and never came back. I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s all right. I only realized I was—I must’ve been misreading—never mind.” James stops. Studies the stars. They shimmer worriedly back. “You were with Ian. And you looked—did he propose to you, again?”  
  
That’s not sarcastic, even though it ought to be. It’s resigned. As if the answer, and Michael’s answer, might be yes.  
  
“It’s not all right,” he says, and puts a hand on that broad back, feeling all the tension in tight muscles. “James. I’m sorry.”  
  
“For what? You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” But James hasn’t moved away. Michael mentally crosses all his fingers. Takes another small step closer, into James’s space now, feeling his skin tingle with the nearness, aware.  
  
“I’m sorry,” he says, very softly, and lifts his other hand and strokes it through all that wistful hair, letting it slide like silk over his fingertips, “that I hurt you. That I didn’t think about you being hurt. That I—”  
  
“But you do think about me, you bought me coffee and—”  
  
“James. Be quiet. I’m trying to tell you that’s not enough. Not if I did something to hurt you after. You  shouldn’t—don’t make yourself not important. You are important. And I’ll go buy you more coffee right now if you want. Or, um, the Iron Throne. Anything you want. Just ask.”  
  
James blinks. “You…told me to be quiet…and then to ask you for things?”  
  
“I…don’t know. I’m making this up as I go. What do you want, from me?”  
  
James blinks again. Eyelashes flicker like wounded hopeful stormclouds, over the blue. “I want you to be happy.”  
  
“You make me happy,” Michael tells him, fingertips brushing his face this time, exploring the curve of that freckled cheek, the welcoming ginger scruff on that pointed chin, the soft intake of breath when James meets his eyes.   
  
“And I’m sorry for one more thing. I’m sorry it took me this long to realize I was in love with you. I am in love with you. I really sort of wanted to come over and push Patrick Stewart off of you and then put my hands on you instead, because I don’t want anyone else to touch you, I want to touch you, all the time, and I love that you love bizarrely flavored coffee and I love you being a fan of everything here and making Iron Man jokes when you’re sad and I’m sorry I ever made you sad and I love you. Um…please say something?”  
  
“You…love me?”  
  
“Yes. I do. I’m also apologizing for Ian. If it helps, he was trying to get us together. He thought you’d be jealous.”  
  
“I was,” James admits, near-soundlessly. Michael barely catches the words. He wonders whether James is trying not to cry, or trying to figure out how to walk away, or trying to forgive him. “I didn’t know what to do, though. I knew you weren’t serious—I didn’t think you were serious—but then I thought, well, you’re just like that with everyone, maybe. Today. And then Patrick kept trying to pet me, which to be honest was kind of disturbing, I’m not certain how many drinks he’s had, and I can’t…I would’ve fought for you if I’d been sure of what you wanted, but. I wasn’t. I’m not.”  
  
“You’re not?” He cups James’s face in both hands, as the blue pools of those eyes shiver with the admission, the pain. “I am. I’ll go out there and punch both of them somewhere painful right now if you ask me to. Though I’d rather not. They’re pretty devious.”  
  
“…isn’t that some sort of treason? Hitting knights of the realm?”  
  
“Probably. I’d still do it. For you.”  
  
An almost-smile, edged around with amusement. “Never had anyone bring me coffee _and_ offer to commit treason for me before. In the same day, even.”  
  
“Maybe tomorrow I can buy you dinner?”  
  
This earns a real laugh, spontaneous and startled. Michael’s heart performs a tiny excited leap, in response.  “We could try that. Or…”  
  
“Or?”  
  
A swallow. A swift little lip-lick, through the night air. Not hesitant. Decisive: James making up his mind. “You said I should tell you if I felt cold. Can I…tell you if I’m not feeling cold? If I want you to hold me anyway?”  
  
“Yes,” Michael whispers. “Yes, James, of course—”  
  
James fits into his arms like perfection, like puzzle pieces snapping together, like the fiery calm at the heart of the world, crackling with eagerness at the coming-home. Leans up and whispers against Michael’s cheek, “You said anything I want. I want you. I love you, too.”  
  
The stars glitter above, and Michael turns his head just a fraction and their lips meet and he’s kissing James, on a warm Southern California evening under the night sky, and it’s their first kiss, the beginning of everything.   
  
When they part for a breath, amazed, that’s a first too, himself looking at James all over again, bright-eyed and flushed with desire and here in his arms, and he says “I love you” again because he has to hear it out loud.  
  
James puts his head on one side. Smiles like the imminent sunrise. Then leans up and in and nibbles at Michael’s lip. “Yes. Your turn.”  
  
“…what?”  
  
“You did say,” James says, laughing again, all that emotion spilling over in that rich Scottish rumble, “that you’d be interested in biting me, earlier…I could like that idea. Your hands, your, ah, teeth, on me…”  
  
“Oh god yes.”  
  
“Shall we—”  
  
“Yes—James, this is—wait. You do—you want this—you want me. You never said—since when did you—”  
  
“You’ll think it’s sappy and pathetic—” James is blushing now. Ferociously. “But I don’t care. You—I never believed in love at first sight. And I don’t, really. But the first time I saw you…years ago…during rehearsals, even, before we’d been properly introduced…I’d made a joke and no one I was talking to got it and then you looked over from across the room and you were grinning and I…so always, I think, is the answer. To your question. Since the first time I saw you.”  
  
“Yes,” Michael says, kissing him again, kissing him always, learning every last little gasp and moan and shiver when teeth nip at that luscious lower lip, so inviting, and he can accept that invitation now because James wants him to,  “yes, always, yes. Me too.”


End file.
